


that was a life-time ago, after all.

by robien



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Post-Prison Escape, References to PTSD, Revived Tommyinnit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 20:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30078195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robien/pseuds/robien
Summary: The warmth of the afternoon slowly faded as the sky gained an orange tint to it, the breeze hinting at a cold night as it picked up pace. Everything was oddly quiet.Rested between his ring finger and middle finger was a small piece of curved glass - whatever it was a part of seemingly cracked beneath the weight of the rest of his items. Curious as to where it came from, he slowly removed what he thought was the rest of his inventory, only to reveal a few mementos of long ago hidden at the bottom.-------Tommy sits down on his and Tubbo's bench after a long, long time, discovering memories from forever ago.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	that was a life-time ago, after all.

The warmth of the afternoon slowly faded as the sky gained an orange tint to it, the breeze hinting at a cold night as it picked up pace. Everything was oddly quiet. The only audible sound around was distant barking and the struggle of water against the creek’s rocks - light began to fade while the sun slowly lowered itself to make space for the stars to set in.  
A calm landscape was almost disturbing after everything, Tommy thought. Opening his front door, he made his way through the maze of roses that grew in-front of his abode over his time spent in the prison. Behind the greenery, he was met with the sight of the many memorials built in his name. A little awkward, considering it’s been a few days since he got out. And he didn’t end up in heaven, that’s for sure.  
_“God, who built these fucking things?”_  
He ignored the horrid sight for now, turning his back to it. Noticing the sunset behind the distant trees, he stopped, before sighing and walking towards the bench. As he approached it, he rested his hand on the side where Tubbo sat. How long has it been? Three.. Four…  
_Too long_.  
No time to chase him down though, he was having fun with his new “best friend” over in Snowchester. Loudly grunting in annoyance at the thought of those two, Tommy swung around the bench and sat down, reaching into the ender chest across him. He opened it, and picked up one of his discs, slowly inserting it into the jukebox. The sun was about halfway across the horizon when it started playing - the perfect time in the perfect place. It felt weird, though - doing this alone.  
His bag was rested against the front of his leg, weighing it down. It was covered in dust after laying in the prison’s locker for close to a month, its owner not bothering to clean it in the slightest after taking it out. It was packed full, his hotel construction helmet and safety vest draped over it. What in the world did he even put in there..?  
He leaned over to remove the clothing, untying the bag open and peering into its contents. On top were sat fairly recent supplies - slightly stale bread, a few leftover golden apples, a lonely ender pearl. Some of it rolled inside one of his old buckets that was in the middle of the inventory - he hasn’t used it to save himself in a while, as it was so rusty and old small holes began to appear at the bottom and the sides. Rolling the rest of the food into it, Tommy dragged it out and put it down on the ground next to his construction equipment. That was about half of the bag’s contents gone, and the other fifty percent were seemingly visible from here. It was materials, for the most part. Old wooden planks, leftover rock and cobble, a few iron ingots and unlit torches. Standard adventuring equipment, exactly what one would expect. However, a slight glimmer of light could be seen underneath the wood. It didn’t look metallic, but it was reflective enough to catch Tommy’s eye.  
_“The fuck is that?”_  
He whispered to himself, before carefully reaching for it. His hands were trembling making sure he won’t cut or scrape himself on anything sharp poking out. The object was fairly tiny, but covered in a thick layer of dust. Looks like it was more than a few months since he put it there, that’s for sure. Trying to remove it, he realized it was attached to something else. He yanked it out on impulse - but as his hand thrust upwards a slight sense of panic overcame him, his fingers just barely missing one of the half-split pieces of wood - it was this close to causing him damage. Making sure he wasn’t bleeding anywhere, he quickly started investigating his fingers before remembering why he reached into the bag. Rested between his ring and middle finger was a small piece of curved glass - whatever it was a part of seemingly cracked beneath the weight of the rest of his items. Curious as to where it came from, he slowly removed what he thought was the rest of his inventory, only to reveal a few mementos of long ago hidden at the bottom.  
The glass item he was curious about was one of a few empty potion bottles. By blowing the dust away, he caused a set of familiar writing to appear. On small paper glued to the bottle stood “INVISIBILITY. Eight Minutes - For Tommy”  
The insides of it were empty, though. Except only for a few particles of blue dye at the bottom.  
_Technoblade._  
Bottles were not the only thing he found. Right next to them was a small pebble - a polished piece of andesite, average at first sight. However, on the top was a small blue smiley face, seemingly hand written with dye and shaky hands.  
_Logsteadshire._  
Underneath it, a now dried up assortment of tied-together herbs and flowers, a small paper name tag attached to the rope that kept them together. On it, in Tubbo’s handwriting - “For the bees.”  
_New L’manberg._  
There wasn’t much besides those, seemingly only two items. A few very old potatoes, way past their expiry age but seemingly kept in enough of a dry space to not rot - and a small iron knife. It had a short blade and an average leather handle, with a few streaks of blue, white and red carefully embroidered into some of its parts.  
_Pogtopia._  
Thinking that was the end of it, Tommy reached for the knife to examine it, only to find there was one more reminder left at the very, very bottom.  
Trembling again, he reached for it, and held it with his two hands.  
A small, tattered, seemingly insignificant piece of blue cloth, with the flag of his former country sown into the middle of it - wrapped around a yellowed, old piece of paper. He removed it, carefully, and with nervousness opened the small note. It looked like only a piece of a bigger letter, the rest of the text lost to time. The writing was faded, but visible.  
_“Stay safe.”_  
_...Wilbur._  
He grabbed his bag from the ground, and began quickly shoving everything he found back into it. The second he finished, he grabbed the rope on top of it and sealed it as tight as he could. He did not want to think about any of that. Not Technoblade, not exile, not Tubbo, not Pogtopia, not… not the man he spent months of pure torment with while he was d-  
He wasn’t. He wasn’t dead because he was still here, because he was still breathing, because he sat right here listening to the discs he fought over and won, for so damn long.  
He got up, ready to grab the rest of his things and leave- only to slip in his anxiety.  
His foot hit a rock, upsetting his balance- his sight quickly tightening into tunnel vision as he loses control of his body and falls backwards, towards the edge of the cliff. Dismay starts taking over as he enters freefall for a split second- quickly turning around in the air, he planted his hands in front of him to catch the edge of the grass as he plunged down. He hit the ground, his head peeking over to see he was this close to stumbling his way off with no way to negate facing harm. With rapid breathing, he lifted himself up and bounced back onto the bench, trembling from the sudden rush of adrenaline and dread that overtook his senses.  
_If he didn’t die, why was he acting like this? If he didn’t die, why was he so afraid of every half-heart lost? Why did he feel like crying at times where he would’ve pushed through and ignored it just a while prior? Why has it been months for him but so little for everyone else?_  
Why did everyone call him a living ghost?  
Horror slowly turned into anger, as he got up from the bench and grabbed the backpack he was about to leave with. Yanking it from the ground, he threw it off of the hillside with a loud groan. The pack hit the ground down below causing a loud thump, before continuing it’s way down the grass, rolling into the brook. Tommy watched as it slowly sunk, along with his memories. As the song finished, and the sun finally set - he tried to steady himself in the dark, still shaky, and chased away the regret of what he just did.  
_Because those memories were not his, he told himself._  
_Because that was all a life-time ago, after all._

**Author's Note:**

> first work for dsmp! woo!  
> if you find any typos please tell me lmao i cannot be bothered to proofread this more than like. twice.  
> (also aware tommy coming terms to the fact that he died was sort of covered in canon already, i started writing this like right after the prison escape)


End file.
